Almost 2am
by UnpoeticGirl
Summary: So, it's almost 2am and you really, really want to kiss her.


It really isn't anything special, I just was in the mood to write something like this (kinda). So, yeah, enjoy.

* * *

The window's opened and the cold whispering wind coming from it makes your arm's brown strings of hair stand on end and it's really cold, actually, but the laziness that you're made of prevents you from getting up and closing it. She shivers slightly under your arm and, yeah, then you get off of your ass and push the glass door. She moans something close to "come here" and you smile because her an-instant-from-falling-asleep voice is too damn cute. You lie next to her again and she cuddles against you, her back pressed against your stomach and you're thinking about how amazingly good it feels and wondering if even the best pancakes in the world feel that good when she moves again and puts her face inches from yours. And then you understand the expression "shortage of breath". Breathing turns into one of those overly complicated tasks and you know you have to breathe but at the same time you're worried that if you breathe too hard it's going to sound like a monster and you're gulping now and oh god, what the fuck was that? It sounded like a cavernous noise. A cavernous noise that came from inside you, how classy.

Still, she doesn't wake up and, though she's asleep, she's got this small grin plastered on her face and you can't wrap your mind around how fucking cute that looks and you're being so impulsive and this isn't the normal you;, this is the you-with-her-lying-way-too-close-for-you-to-be-the-normal-you. You breathe again and for no apparent reason you move your arm and then stare at it because even you, the proud owner of the arm that just moved, cannot comprehend why said arm actually moved. You're going insane, you note. She inches a little closer and presses her chin against her chest, which makes you actually glance at her chest – a movement that you soon regret because the lack of fabric on the cleavage area is blurring your vision and you're unable to stop staring at it. _Them_, staring at _them_. You look up once again and examine her snow-like cheekbones and you think that she's the most amazing thing in the world and wonder if she knows that and then go off to concluding that she probably does.

But she's asleep and it's almost two in the morning and you should be asleep too because not being asleep isn't, not even under normal circumstances – which clearly isn't the case –, recommendable so you close your eyes and for a moment everything's black – wait, is that offensive? But again, that only lasts an eighth of a moment and soon after all the darkness fades and the puzzle pieces that form your lately-not-so-coherent-thoughts begin to be put together by some kind of force that doesn't feel like your own, the images dancing on your mind are of her, of course. You see her jumping up and down like a maniac; you see her laughing as you try to dance the Gangnam Style; you see her ushering in to some random classroom; you see her orange sweatshirt disappearing into the crowd on that night you went to your first concert and you two got lost from each other. And then you see her lying on your bed, eyes close, nose scrunched up, arm resting on your leg and when you think that that's an oddly recent picture, you open your eyes and realize that it's exactly how she looks now. And then you decide you can't take it anymore.

You nudge her (bony) shoulder a few times before she actually begins to show any signs of conscience. She shivers a few times and you're starting to regret this absolutely-out-this-world idea when she arches her back and presses her breasts against your chest, which makes you regret it a whole lot more. "Sasha," you call out. Your voice sounds kind of manly and as though you have a really sore throat. You clear your throat and say her name again. She mumbles some sort of acknowledgement.

"Are you awake?"

"Is 'no' an acceptable answer?"

"No."

"Then, yes," she spits back, still not opening her eyes.

"I need to tell you something," you start.

"Great way to start a sentence, let me tell you."

"Stop being a prick. I-" and then you realize that whatever you might think of saying will always sound too cliché and not completely honest because there really isn't a way to tell her the truth without spending two days just describing how your stomach floats and practically comes out of your mouth every time she does as much as brush her hand against yours. So you kiss her because that's really all you want to do and you can't really think of a reason not to do it other than the possibility – or should you say probability? – of being rejected and if that's the only con you can come up with then it's really not enough because jesus fucking Christ, not much in this world can get done without the possibility of rejection. Also, there's the advantage that she's still half-asleep and that if you actually _do_ get rejected you can always tell her in the morning that she must have been dreaming and that you would never in a million years try to kiss her and, therefore, deny it till the end of time. At least till the end of _your_ time.

So you dive in and her lips are against yours – or better yet: yours are against hers because hers are still in the same spot as they were before – and you're pecking her on the lips and you're thinking of how utterly mad you probably are and it takes her no more than two nanoseconds to kiss you back and then you're both kissing each other and it feels amazing and indescribable – which is a paradox, since you are actually trying to describe it – and though you have kissed people before this is in many – too many to count – ways different and you're in a state of absolute bliss and completely in awe of her and you're smiling and, against all odds, she smiles a bit too and yes, this is what you have been waiting for. You have this urge to jump out of bed and scream out FINALLY but then you remember that as good as that may feel, it could never compare to how amazing her dark-red lips feel against yours. And then you part because breathing has once again become too difficult and while you're trying to catch your breath you notice that she still hasn't opened her eyes but then she speaks.

"Well, that sure took you a long time," and the arm that was once on your leg is now enveloping you and she pulls you a little closer to her and you're thinking that you should probably say something when she speaks up again in an almost-too-muffled-by-sleep voice, "Goodnight."

And you could ask her all the questions that you know will still torment you in the morning but once you look up and face the ceiling you realize that her head resting on the curve between your shoulder and your neck already answers them all.


End file.
